


Playing for the Harpies

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Oral Sex, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Quidditch, Rough Sex, Sexism, Sports, background Gwenog Jones/F!OC, past Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley - Freeform, past F/M relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 03:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14887214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: (idiom) Wizarding slang referring to a witch who is romantically interested in other witches. Derived from the all-women's team, the Holyhead Harpies.Ex: She plays for the Harpies.(Or: in which Ginny and Angelina find out they're playing for the same team!)





	Playing for the Harpies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RuinsPlume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinsPlume/gifts).



> I cannot take credit for the wizarding slang. I read it in a fic long ago and loved it so much I folded it into my own headcanon. ~~I have long forgotten the fic, but would greatly appreciate if anyone who finds it could point it out to me again!~~ Many thanks to Nina Gooch for reminding me that the fic is [Fresh Starts, Old Hearts!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223405)
> 
> Many thanks to Duster for cheering me through and beta’ing. You're the best. <3

"Oy, listen up you screeching she-demons!" Gwenog bellows cheerfully, thumping Ginny between the shoulders.

Ginny was braced for it. She still rocks forward, back, but digs in her heels and juts her chin. Projects confidence like a hex. Her hair snaps behind her in a long tail, a red banner in the wind. The sky's a grey-bright dazzle of early morning, the grass still damp and new with possibility, and her future— _new_ — teammates gather in a loose circle.

"This is Ginny Weasley, our newest Chaser." Gwenog's teeth blaze white against the dark of her face, eyes twinkling with feral cheer. "Angelina Johnson, Valmai Morgan, I expect you two to be working with her special-like, you hear?"

"Heard," Valmai says, swiping back her pink bangs with one hand. Cocky-casual, an effortless cool that implies long practice in front of a mirror. Ginny immediately plots how to steal that for herself.

Angelina grins— and for one small second, Ginny is back in school, watching the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Hungry. Longing. Her tongue glues itself to the roof of her mouth as Angelina says, "Hey, Gin."

Gwenog introduces the rest of the team, though it's hardly necessary; Ginny's been following the Holyhead Harpies long enough to recognize every single one of them, and the only surprise comes with the elation that she is now _one of them_.

That first fizz of delight calms to subdued joy as they start training drills. Valmai, Angelina, and Ginny quickly break into their own section near the goals, passing the Quaffle in a series of flying maneuvers. Valmai zips hard; her weakness tends to be chasing the ball rather than anticipating, while Angelina's more cautious than Ginny remembers. Ginny finds herself in the middle more often than not, Valmai and Angelina working on their keep-away as Ginny tries to steal the Quaffle.

Ginny's chance comes when Valmai is a fraction too slow with her catch, the ball grazing her fingers as it spins to the ground. Ginny leans into her broom, knees gripping tight and torso parallel to the handle as she dives forward. The wind whips her face, chapping her lips and frigid in her nostrils as she reaches out, arcs into it. A jet black object flies across her left, and she twists sideways in an abrupt roll, world spun topsy-turvy to avoid the Bludger as she slams the Quaffle to her chest and pulls her broom into a steep climb.

" _Weasley,_ watch your periphery!" Gwenog shouts, hitting the Bludger with a loud _crack!_ "Morgan, Johnson, _communicate_. It's not just keep-away with the new girl! Switch pairs!"

"I'll pair with her, Valmai," Angelina says, pulling up beside Ginny. Angelina gives her a hard look. "That was reckless."

Ginny snorts. "Injuries heal. Victory is forever."

Angelina laughs despite herself, braids rustling in the wind. "That'll make a nice quote."

"We're getting reporters already?" Ginny asks, glancing down. A man in sleek grey robes with a pointy beard is talking with Gwenog, taking a few startled steps back as she rolls up her sleeves and stalks towards him with a face full of murder. Seeker Trinity Kwan is trying her best to scruff Gwenog, despite also having a face full of murder.

Angelina squints, then rolls her eyes. "Not reporters. Sponsors. That twit represents a lingerie manufacturer. We all voted and already said no, we're not posing in our knickers." Her face twists as she sticks out her tongue. "No one asks _Krum_ to pose in his underwear."

"I've _met_ Krum. No one would _want_ to."

Angelina snickers as Valmai shouts, "Come on, drill me!"

"You're not my type," Angelina calls flippantly, and Ginny's heart does a funny little squiggle in her chest as she rejoins their practice.

. . .

Gwenog signals the end of practice with a Harpy screech, bringing the rest of the girls together with a full-throated scream and group huddle before leaving the field. Valmai gives everyone a hasty wave as she beelines to her locker, grabbing her gear before Disapparating.

"How long do you reckon _this_ one will last?" Keeper Ximena Santiago asks.

Angelina wobbles her hand and shrugs. "Two, three weeks?"

"I give it a month!" calls Beater Iris MacDowall. "This one's _really_ cute!"

"Boy or girl this time?" Ximena asks with academic curiosity.

Iris laughs, shaking out her hair. "Neither! They and them, if you please."

Angelina drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, dipping close enough her breath tickles Ginny's ear. "Word to the wise: Iris is a _terrible_ gossip. Can't keep a secret to save her life."

"I heard that, Johnson! Like _you_ care when it's all giggles over drinks!"

Gwenog stomps into the lockers with an arm slung over Trinity's shoulder, then detaches herself with a heavy thump as she slams herself onto a bench. "Just _once_ I'd love one of these sponsors to actually sponsor us as _athletes_ , not as _girls_ who just happen to play. If it's not mascara that won't run or deodorant that smells like unicorn farts or _pink_ brooms that shoot rainbows and sparkle—”

"To be fair, I would have begged for one of those when I was six," Trinity says calmly.

Gwenog pauses. "...unicorn farts?"

Trinity rolls her eyes and punches Gwenog's shoulder. " _No,_ Gwen. A pink broom."

"Then ask us to sponsor brooms and gear! Not just this pinkwashed shit!" Gwenog rallies, puffing out her chest as she struggles to regain her rage. "I haven't worn makeup or shaved my legs in over a bloody _decade_ , why would I promote it?"

"What about nail clippers?"

Gwenog cocks her head, considering, and Trinity takes the opportunity to add a mollifying, "Look, we _are_ the only all-women's team in the British and Irish Quidditch League. Maybe if we do an interview with Witch Weekly..."

Ginny loses the rest of the conversation as she enters the shower, warm spray drizzling her shoulders and into her ear as she starts scrubbing. She finishes with a quick drying spell, then goes back to her locker to put on her street clothes. Muggle fashion is all the rage these days— partly post-war pushback, partly because honestly, it's such a relief to have clothes you don't have to worry about tripping over— so that means jeans and a T-shirt under a blue flannel jacket.

Ximena gives a low whistle and a salacious wink. "Ooh, flannel. As if we didn't already _know_ you play for the Harpies."

"Don't we all?" Ginny asks flippantly.

Ximena cackles. "Well, all of us except Iris. She's our token straight girl."

"I'm up to changing my mind," Iris says cheerfully.

They go to the Hag's Haunt for drinks. The Harpies are obviously a familiar enough sight that the barkeep— a burly middle-aged witch with an enormously pointy hat— nods and waves them towards what must be the usual table, sending a platter of chips and a round of butterbeers.

"To our newest player!" Ximena toasts, tipping an invisible hat as she clinks her mug against Ginny's.

"To pounding Puddlemere!" Gwenog cheers, knocking mugs with Trinity. Foam splatters the table.

Trinity crinkles her nose, blotting the mess with a napkin. "To new friends," she adds, giving a tiny wobble of her mug.

"And old nags!" Iris teases, blowing a kiss to Trinity. Gwenog pretends to snatch it from the air and tucks it in her pocket.

"To clear skies," Angelina says. Her eyes meet Ginny's, dark and gleaming.

Ginny's heart knocks against her ribs, diaphragm tight with fierce pride. "To the best damn team in the League!"

They drink.

The next few hours are a blur of laughter and good-natured teasing, plus Gwenog and Trinity scouring the Daily Prophet for the latest Quidditch rankings and newest broom models. They eventually peel off in ones and twos, Gwenog's arm still slung around Trinity's shoulder as she reminds everyone that never mind the drinks, practice is still on the next day, and finally it's just Ginny and Angelina and too many memories bursting on her tongue.

"We've missed you at the Burrow, Angelina," she says, quiet. Like a creaked door in an empty house.

Angelina sighs, but does not flinch. "I'm sorry. George and I are still friends, you know. But with Fred..."

"You didn't stop being family with him gone, you know."

Angelina winces. "I'm sorry."

Ginny lets out a long exhale, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry too. I didn't— look, I didn't mean it like an accusation. Just wanted you to know that we miss you."

Angelina bites her lip, tracing her finger in a puddle of smeared condensation. "I— I don't know if this helps, or not. Fred was— he was special, you know. I loved him. For what that's worth. But even meeting up with George, it's like..." She frowns, shakes her head. Blows hard past her lips. "It's like poking a pulled tooth, to see if it hurts. No space to heal."

"I'm sorry. We don't have to—"

Angelina covers Ginny's hand with her own, cool and damp. Squeezes. "No, talking is good. It's not that I don't miss Fred, or that I miss talking, but just. I'm tired of being defined by the men in my life, you know? The men who are there. The men who aren't."

Ginny's breath catches against her teeth, Harry's name in her mouth. Like it's been inked on her tongue, ever since she was ten years old and too young to wonder what happens after 'happily ever after.'

"I know what you mean," she says quietly.

Angelina lets out a bitter laugh. "Morgana, I'm glad _someone_ does. Half the time I'm not even sure that _I_ know."

Ginny lets the conversation slide, and asks, "I know you joined the Harpies right after the war. Was it different, then?"

Angelina nods. "Mhm. Gwenog was— well, Gwenog was Gwenog. She was harder. Tougher. We all lost so much, she wasn't going to lose her team. Even if it meant killing us in training," she adds, rolling her eyes. "Valmai was falling in love as hard as she could, just to show she wasn't afraid of it. I mean, she still falls hard," Angelina corrects herself, crinkling her nose. "But I think she had more to prove, then. We all did." She chuckles. "Me? I was just glad to be flying for _fun_ again. No more fly missions, no intel or dead drops. Back to dodging Bludgers instead of curses." Angelina absently picks up a cold chip, breaking it in half and chewing. "What about you, Ginny? I heard the last year with the Carrows was living in a war zone."

Ginny shrugs. "We were all living in a war zone. But the Carrows weren't— they weren't _my_ last year. I went back, you know. Finished up year seven. Mum said I didn't have to go back, that there were plenty of jobs out there that wouldn't mind if I didn't finish my NEWTs, not with the war on, but—"

She sighs.

"—I'm tired of being defined by the men in my life, you know?"

Angelina's lips quirk in a smile. "I know what you mean."

. . .

This is her life now: wake up from her nest of quilts and blankets, stumble to breakfast, eat eggs on toast while Luna reads newspaper articles aloud, give Luna a one-armed hug while grabbing her broom, Apparate to the pitch. Ginny will sometimes get carryout on the way home, usually chicken makhani and sag paneer or aloo ghobi, and share with Luna as they camp out at the kitchen table while swapping stories about their day. Sometimes Ginny will pick up the food, sometimes Luna does. Luna rarely cooks, at least not in the sense of applied heat from a stove or oven, but she'll make summer salads and veg sandwiches packed with tomato and cucumber. Ginny, having grown up with her mum's cooking, tends towards more rib-sticking fare, long-simmered stews and roasts that she rarely has time for during practice.

Fridays, though, are always spent with the team.

This is their routine now: practice, then dinner and drinks. Valmai's original datemate lasts five weeks, to Ximena's surprise and Iris' glee, and Valmai joins the pub group. Despite Trinity's sympathetic offer of drinks and Gwenog's (possibly) joking offer to thump their head, Valmai declines.

"It was what it was. Friendly, but short," Valmai says cheerfully, then drains her butterbeer in one long swallow.

Ginny shoots Angelina a questioning look; Angelina shrugs.

By unspoken agreement, it ends up as Angelina and Ginny by themselves in the Hag's Haunt at the end of the night, their teammates splintering away or flying home long before them. It's a shame to split up, so Angelina goes to the flat that Ginny's sharing with Luna, where they sit together on the couch watching Muggle movies off a grainy box television that Luna found in a secondhand shop and eating their way through the several bricks of baked goods that Mum always sends.

"So they make it work by... electricity? Like lightning?" Angelina asks doubtfully. The flickering light casts her face in blue shadows.

"Sort of?" Ginny guesses, pausing with a forkful of chocolate cake halfway to her mouth.

Luna gives a dreamy smile, stroking the square buttons of the channel changer. "They use electrons, which are the tiny lightnings in the foundation of the atom. The smallest possible piece of matter. They paint light by using these lightnings to excite the colors in the screen. Amazing, isn't it? Any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic."

Angelina shoots Ginny a worried look; Ginny shrugs and continues eating.

This is what happens, now: Another Friday at the Haunt, and it's too early to call it a night and too late to go out, so Ginny invites Angelina back to the apartment. Luna's out, so it's just Ginny and Angelina on the couch, side by side. The movie is some dull creature feature that Ginny can barely remember the name of, can barely remember why she's supposed to care about the blonde woman screaming on-screen. She's sitting close to Angelina under a pilling red blanket, their thighs brushing. Her foot taps— almost against her will, unaware of it, toes sliding off Angelina's ankle.

Angelina crosses her legs and scoots closer. Thigh to thigh, now. Arms touching, holding hands under the warmth of the blanket.

"So. This movie is absolute shit. Want to make out instead?" Ginny asks, words loose like an arrow— impossible to take back now, can only move forward, forward. Momentum in motion, bite down on the risk. No danger, no glory.

"Circe's _tits_ I thought I was going to have to do the old 'yawn and stretch' routine!" Angelina laughs, twisting sideways into a kiss. Their noses bump, giggling, and Ginny bites too hard at Angelina's lip, but she kisses a soft apology after Angelina yelps. Angelina buries her hand in Ginny's hair, nails raking her scalp, and nuzzles at the soft line of skin below the jaw, licking the tendon running down her neck, and Ginny lets out a gasp as she scrabbles for purchase, instead knotting her fist into the back of Angelina's shirt, swinging a leg over to straddle her lap.

Ginny sucks her teeth, a sharp hitch of breath as Angelina tugs her hair, and the other woman pauses.

"Gin? Is this okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. More than okay. Feels _good_."

Angelina chuckles, breath warm on Ginny's neck. "Okay. Good to know. You like hair-pulling, biting..."

"Spanking, a little rough and tumble. A little push and pull."

"Mm. For the record, I don't. Like hair-pulling, I mean," Angelina adds, thumb scratching along Ginny's scalp, a sweet line of friction that makes Ginny's toes curl. "Otherwise, I give as good as I get. But so far, you're all _pull_ and not much _push_..."

Ginny growls, both hands on Angelina's shoulders, pushing her into the couch cushions. The blanket's wound between them like spaghetti on a fork, an awkward wad of muffling softness before Angelina yanks it aside, and oh, but oh, they're close now, belly to belly and jeans sliding over one another, warmth and radiant heat. Ginny grips her knees tight on Angelina, clamping on and grinding down as Angelina sucks behind her ear, all soft lips and warm tongue and a scrape of tooth.

"You want to fuck my thigh, or get naked?"

"Who says we can't do both?" Ginny challenges, peeling her shirt off with one hand. She snaps it in the air, tossing it over the back of the couch as Angelina balks.

"Here? What if Luna...?"

"Nah, Luna's in London for an interdisciplinary conference. Something about comparative studies between Muggle cryptozoology and magizoology. She'll be gone all weekend." Ginny pulls off her sports bra, lobs it over the couch to hit the rug in soft _whumpf_ of cloth.

Angelina snorts, cupping Ginny’s breast to pinch the nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger and giving a gentle tug— too gentle, Ginny folds her hand over Angelina's and presses until it's hard enough to make her breath hiss between her teeth— and mouth seeking the other breast, lips wet and teeth crimping flesh, pink areola hardening to dusky rose as Ginny groans, a full-body flush that splotches color down her face and neck, dripping across her chest as she ruts against Angelina's thigh, the thick flex of muscle and glory and heat and flesh and she comes with a whimper, a soft mewl she hates even as it dredges itself across her lips, because it's small, weak, _soft_ , and Ginny has never wanted to be any of those things. When she pulls back, eyes hazy, it's to find a knowing answer in Angelina's gaze, some shared understanding in the depths of those brown eyes, and Ginny lets out a stuttering breath she hadn't even known she was holding.

"You're gorgeous when you come," murmurs Angelina.

Ginny laughs, bright-flash confidence over the rattle-shake of her lungs. "And you're gorgeous always. C'mon, take your pants off."

Ginny has to roll off Angelina's lap so Angelina can hitch her jeans, tugging the denims past her hips and wriggling to get them past the swell of her calves. Ginny slides to a kneeling position on the floor so she can help pull them off the rest of the way, then tugs so Angelina's panties follow suit. They're black with little white ribbons, not as ridiculously fragile as the lingerie in the back of the Witch Weekly catalogue, but definitely nicer than the boxers that Ginny wears most days.

"Dressed up for me?" Ginny asks hopefully.

Angelina laughs, cupping Ginny's cheek. Her thumb traces Ginny's face, whispers down her cheek. "Sometimes I like to feel pretty. Wasn't _just_ for you."

"I'll still take it," Ginny says, decisively, and Angelina's laughter rings her ears as she settles between Angelina's legs. She kisses Angelina's belly, her thighs, every line and striation of skin where her jeans crinkled her skin, where her elastics crimped flesh. Buries her nose in the tight curls of Angelina's pubic hair, breath tickling skin before she sets her thumbs on each side of Angelina's cunt and gently tugs, releasing warmth and musk in a near-tangible hit. Angelina's thighs flex, belly tight as she shifts, adjusting position on the ratty couch, and Ginny lets her settle before starting with an open-mouthed kiss to Angelina's vulva, her lips warm and tongue soft in gentle exploration.

Angelina moans, one hand gripping the cushion and the other in Ginny's hair, nails scraping, but _ah_ but it's better like this, following Angelina's lead as she groans, grips, shifts. Ginny follows with her mouth and tongue, gentle swirls and laps and tasting Angelina to the core, broad strokes of her tongue in soft patterns, circling in as Angelina grips tight, tight, tighter, and Ginny folds her lips in a hard line over the clit, sucks hard with tongue and mouth as Angelina hooks a knee over her shoulder, grinding onto Ginny's face and she screams, groans, a half-choked thing that thrills down Ginny's spine like chain lightning and Ginny keeps going, going, mouth wet, tongue hard, until—

"Stop, stop," Angelina gasps. Relaxed, boneless, hand limp on Ginny's head as Ginny disengages. She lolls back, eyes shut, lips parted, breathing heavy.

Ginny stands up, grabbing her shirt off the back of the couch to blot her mouth and chin. "Too much?"

"Yeah. Too much. _Good_ , but too much," she clarifies. "One, maybe two. Then everything shuts down."

Ginny nods, then remembers Angelina can't see it. "Okay. Want to just sit and cuddle, then? Mum sent a cherry cake, if you want some."

"Yeah, that's good."

Ginny busies herself in the kitchen, clinking plates and forks as she cuts two thick slabs of cake.

From the couch, Angelina groans. "Circe's tits, I should have asked first. Are we datemates? Friends who fuck?"

"Whatever we want to be." Ginny brings the plates over, plopping herself next to Angelina as she passes the food over. "What's a date, anyway? Dinner, drinks— we've _done_ all that already. Would love to _keep_ doing that. Unless you're worried about the team...?"

Angelina snorts. "Nah. If Gwen and Trin can work it, so can we." She lifts her fork and stabs into her cake, tines scraping the plate.

It turns into a wonderful, lazy, weekend, cooking breakfast in their underwear and laughing and going out to Muggle cafes and picking up curry takeaway. Angelina borrows Ginny's grooming kit, giving a rakish smile as she blatantly trims her fingernails before fucking Ginny up against the wall, gnawing bruises in her shoulders as she drives three fingers in her cunt. She doesn't initiate as much as Ginny— which Ginny thinks about a lot, flipping it over like a marked card from an unknown deck— instead waiting for verbal check-ins or a saucy wink before she does anything, but Ginny finds she likes it. Gives her a chance to set the pace, to figure out who they are, what she wants. Angelina's only a few years older anyway, but sometimes it feels like worlds of experience. Sometimes more, like when Ginny begs to be hauled over Angelina's lap and spanked until screaming. Sometimes less, like when Ginny pulls out one of her favorite dildos and fucks Angelina in front of the bathroom mirror.

In the end, it's not a question of _what_ they do, so much as how _much_ they do. They have a good time, over and over, as many ways as they can figure. They always end up sweaty and sated, kiss each other and hold hands and drink endless pots of tea while working their way through the care package from Mrs Weasley, and when they return to practice on Monday morning Ximena gives them a Look before grinning.

"Iris, pay up," she orders, palm out.

Iris stares, wide-eyed with wonder and confusion before blurting, "Oh, _finally_!"

. . .

As Angelina predicted, Gwenog doesn't give two shits about them dating. It folds into the rhythm of their practice; Angelina and Ginny still play hard, still fly drills with their teammates and join them for drinks, clinking glasses and calling toasts, but hold hands under the table and lean on one another as they sit on the benches. They don't always have the time for leisurely weekend fuck sessions, but they spend Fridays at the Haunt before going to the flat for movies with Luna, and Ginny starts taking Angelina round the Burrow again.

(This is easy in some ways; hard in others. Sometimes easier, like how Angelina slots herself into one of the too-empty seats at the table. Sometimes harder, like when George shows up. Angelina always gives him a big hug and he embraces her, but there's always that extra distance, that unfilled space.)

Time passes.

Ginny marks days in grass stains and laundry and the increasing number of items that Angelina leaves in Ginny's flat, and retaliates (lovingly, gently, spitefully) by leaving a toothbrush at Angelina's and being sure to leave several long red strands in the bathroom sink for Angelina to grumble over.

Even more importantly, they have their first match of the season against the Falmouth Falcons.

"Careful on this one," Trinity says in the pregame huddle, face stony and eyes flashing lightning. In a world with magic, this is no mere metaphor; she fills the June air with ozone and tin, and Gwenog puts a hand on her shoulder, grounding. "Team motto is 'let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads.' They play fast and brutal."

Ginny sneaks a glance over Valmai's shoulder. There is no official all-male Quidditch team in the League as bizarre retort to the Harpies, but she can't help noticing that all the players in grey and white, rowdy and boisterous and slapping each other's backs and punching each other in the arm, just _happen_ to be men.

"So do I," Gwenog says. She grins, hard and sharp. "Come on, team. Let's beat them bloody."

Ginny mounts her broom and takes her position as the referee flies down the center of the field. They give a sharp whistle, then toss the Quaffle in the air before diving aside as the players surge forward.

Angelina barrel-rolls to avoid a Bludger, which Gwenog smashes back to the Falcons' Seeker as Trinity goes high, high, higher and Ginny snaps her gaze back to the field. Trinity can watch out for herself; Ginny dives for the Quaffle, neck-and-neck and then shoulder-to-shoulder with a Falcon. He jostles his broom sideways, but Ginny's played enough to anticipate the move, instead making a sharp left and letting his own momentum send him lurching off his broom, struggling to regain control as she grabs the Quaffle. She zooms towards the goal posts, feinting right before punching the Quaffle through an undefended hoop.

"First score to the Harpies! Ten points!" the referee's amplified voice booms.

Ginny pumps her first in the air, letting out a Harpies' screech that echoes down the field as her teammates raise their voices in solidarity. She turns, giving the opposing Keeper a smile that's more challenge than charm as he throws the Quaffle back into play.

The heat's on Ginny now; she zips left, right, left as the Beaters smash Bludgers at her, then pulls an upside-down loop that spins them dizzy as Valmai and Angelina race up the field, passing the Quaffle back and forth at near-blinding speeds before Angelina scores the second goal of the game.

"Careful," Gwenog says, voice low as she hovers beside Ginny. "Give 'em a run for it, but if they can't catch you, they'll take it out on Trin."

Ginny nods, knuckles tight on her broom.

Trinity's still high above the pitch, higher than anyone else except the Falcons' Seeker. They circle warily on opposite sides of the field. Ginny's job is to score points, not worry about Trinity, but the Seeker is traditionally the weakest point of a team...

Ginny swats those thoughts away, instead executing a three-part pass up the field, just like they did in practice, only for one of the Falcons Chasers to swipe it at the last moment. Iris smacks a Bludger at him, which misses, but Ximena blocks the Quaffle with her shoulder and denies them the point.

Overhead, a shadow moves— Ginny spots Trinity, plummeting, broom near-vertical as she dives—

The Falcons Seeker reacts in kind, hand stretched out—

Gwenog smashes a Bludger into him, a square hit in the side of his ribs that has Ginny wincing even as she lets out an exhilarated, relieved scream. Trinity pulls up from her dive, eyes twinkling, and blows a kiss to Gwenog, who grins and tosses back a salute.

Enraged, the Falcons grow more intense. Their Chasers grab the Quaffle and make two more attempts at the goal. Ximena successfully blocks one, but misses the other, and the Falcons fans let out a ragged cheer that has Ginny sucking her teeth.

Angelina, Ginny, and Valmai tighten their focus. Angelina and Ginny block one of the Falcons' Chasers between them, cutting off escape as Valmai swoops in to steal the Quaffle, then break away as Iris bats a Bludger at him. The Chaser drops low, letting a Beater take over. He grips his broom with his knees, shoulders back as he delivers a two-handed swing that whacks the Bludger at Angelina. Angelina swerves, Valmai passes the Quaffle to Ginny, Ginny goes for the goal—

Black fills her vision, and Ginny jerks back, but not quickly enough to avoid the Bludger to her face. A hissing boo echoes through the stands, not that Ginny can _see_ them with her vision swimming in tears, but she hears Gwenog's, "I've got you!" and the solid _thwack_ of Gwenog's bat on the Bludger, and she still has the warm leather of the Quaffle in her hand so she goes for the hazy outline of the goalpost, hears the Keeper's yelp and a sickening crunch that might be bone, and tosses the Quaffle through.

Ginny barely registers the referee's announcement of the score or Gwenog asking if she needs a time-out, instead spinning to face the Falcons Beater who must have thrown the Bludger at her. He's a dark grey blot, would blend in perfectly against a storm but he's just a target in the bright blue summer sky, so Ginny leans forward on her broom, rushing his position—

"Weasley's going to— she's going to _crash into the Beater_! Is this on purpose?" the announcer calls, breathless, and blood streams down Ginny's mouth, thick and coppery, and Ginny's not above committing a foul if she has to, but—

The Beater breaks first, swerving directly into the path of another Bludger.

Iris raises her fist, possibly her thumb— Ginny's vision is still watery, so she's not entirely sure if Iris' expression is one of approval or of exasperation, but it _worked._

"And Kwan has the Snitch!" the referee calls, and Ginny's breath could shatter her lungs, she's so full, _overflowing_ , and it should feel anticlimactic with the game over so soon as they call out the score (180-10; a crushing victory, a humiliating defeat) but Ginny circles back with her team, screeching her heart out even with the slow gurgle of blood from her nose and caked on her robes.

The Falcons' captain flies towards them, smiling and extending his hand to Gwenog. "Congratulations, Miss Jones. Who would have thought so many gorgeous ladies could be so devastating?"

Gwenog does not extend her hand.

Trinity says, voice flat, "It doesn't matter two shits whether or not we're pretty. We're here to _win_."

The Falcon lowers his voice, still smiling. "Now come on, Kwan, you can't still be sore over—"

"No, I'm not," she says sharply, voice rising. "I am _glad_ to be with the Harpies, and I am even _more_ glad to be with a team I respect and respects _me_ , and that actually _wins_ instead of constantly pulling bottom of the League!"

"So back off or I'll break your arm. Again," Gwenog says, all teeth in her smile.

The Falcon blanches, and leaves.

"Okay, fuck," Gwenog says, puffing out her cheeks and blowing her lips with an exaggerated grimace. "Ginny, go to the healers. Hag's Haunt for drinks, I'm buying first round. Well done, team. And if any of the Falcons come 'round—"

"I'll jinx them six ways 'til Sunday," Ximena says with a disaffected drawl. "You don't have to settle _everything_ with your fists."

"But it's so satisfying!" Gwenog protests, and Ginny loses the rest of the conversation as Angelina takes her by the elbow and steers her to the medical witches. It's a simple charm to fix Ginny's face, but the wet blood still shines across her lips and is starting to turn dark on her robes, but other than a cursory wipe of her face Ginny leaves it be. Unsanitary, yes, but also a badge of honor. She shed blood on the pitch, and like hell she's going to wash it off before the day is done, even if Angelina's mouth tightens and Ginny knows there'll be a row about it later, sure as sunrise, but that's _later_. They'll put on their faces for the public, then fight it out in private.

They Apparate to the Hag's Haunt, which is packed wall to wall with Harpies fans. Ginny and Angelina elbow their way to their usual table, grinning ear to ear as Gwenog orders drinks. Luna's already there, pale hair bound in green ribbons and a necklace of green and yellow-dyed Butterbeer corks. Alicia and Katie are there too, clapping their hands on Angelina's shoulders and giving her a rib-crushing hug, one on each side.

They drink and dance and there are always more drinks, more cheers and people to shake hands with and autographs to sign and Valmai brings her newest date around for introductions and friendly ribbing.

"You think this is loud, just watch out for when we play Puddlemere," Angelina chuckles into Ginny's ear, her breath sweet and herbal with some fancy cocktail that features elderberry syrup and basil, one of the leaves mashed on her teeth.

A tall witch with long red nails is pulling Gwenog into some animated conversation, Trinity nodding slowly, and Valmai has wandered into the corner to sprawl over her girlfriend's lap, and Ximena and Iris are taking bets on another something or other, and really the party is still in full swing but Luna's looking a little frazzled around the edges and Ginny uses gallantry as an excuse to offer to Apparate home. She gives Angelina a meaningful look, and Angelina Apparates with them.

Ginny makes peppermint tea for Luna and tucks her into bed, blue and silver comforter drawn up under her chin, then retreats to her room with Angelina. Angelina casts Muffliato, and Ginny waggles her eyebrows, shucking off her robes.

"Planning to get loud?"

Angelina crosses her arms, scowling. "That was _stupid_ , Ginny. Deliberately crashing into another player?"

"I _didn't_ , and it _worked_ ," Ginny argues, and this is just as much part and parcel of playing and fighting and fucking the same person all at the same time, carrying on arguments hours after the fact, like heavy stones in their pockets unready to skip.

"Why do you have to be so _stubborn_?" Angelina growls, but her robes have already hit the floor, and she's stripping down like it's a race, a competition.

"And why do you always have to be _right_?" Ginny counters, taking Angelina by the shoulders. She pushes Angelina to the bed, but Angelina grabs her wrists and yanks Ginny on top of her, then rolls sideways to straddle Ginny's hips.

Ginny thrashes against Angelina, bucking her hips and bouncing to make the bed groan, the frame sway. Angelina twists a hand into her hair, nails raking the scalp, and lowers her mouth to gnaw the hollow of Ginny's neck, the triangle between tendon and collarbone. Her teeth carve flesh, hands raking across Ginny's body as Ginny bites back, claws a hand across Angelina's shoulders and screams. They play hard, fuck hard, strip each other down to meat and flesh and raw need. Ginny's loses sequence in a mess of sensation, her world narrowed hard and red— Angelina's teeth at her neck, the rough slide of Angelina's fingers between her legs, her own pained whimper as she digs her heels in the bed, the comforter damp and scratchy under her back, under layers of salt and sweat and slick as she shoves herself onto Angelina's fingers, screams, screams, screams—

When she collapses, limp and boneless, panting like she's been running sprints— and maybe she has, up and down, steeple-chases against her own orgasm— Angelina slaps her arse and huffs, "My turn."

Ginny sprawls back on her pillow, placing two fingers in a V and sticking her tongue between them.

Angelina rolls her eyes and kneels across Ginny's face. She grabs the headboard for balance, wincing as it thumps the wall, but Ginny wriggles into position and buries herself in Angelina’s thighs.

The thrill of victory adds an extra edge, a special tartness that Ginny might just be imagining from her own post-victory high. She squeezes Angelina's hips, dragging her tongue through the open folds of Angelina's cunt. This is her world, forehead pressed beneath Angelina's belly, the weight and warmth of Angelina's thighs all around her, an all-surrounding embrace of flesh and want, a near-smother in Angelina's body as she sucks and licks and tugs, using just a hint of teeth as Angelina grinds down, down, down, the blood pounding Ginny's ears and her face red-red-warm and her lungs just might burst at this point, she might have to tap out and beg Angelina for air, but Angelina finally comes with a cry and throws herself off Ginny's face, a skewed-angle sprawl with their sweat still cooling, but Ginny takes that first breath of blessed air and laughs with relief and joy all in one.

"Circe's tits, I thought you were about to murder me. For real," she wheezes.

Angelina groans, thumping the pillow. "Death by sex? Worse ways to go."

"Is that your defense?"

Angelina groans, straightening herself out to lie parallel to Ginny, fingers laced together. Only their hands are in contact now, the rest of their bodies left to sweat and melt and evaporate on their own. "For the record, Gin... I'm not mad at you."

A pause.

Ginny considers cracking a joke, but Angelina takes a breath and continues.

"I mean, I am. A little. But because I _worry_."

"As a teammate or a girlfriend?"

"Both. As a teammate, what was the _point_ of that?"

"To show that I give as hard as I get. That I don't back down, don't swerve."

"Would you really have crashed him?"

Ginny rolls her eyes, huffing. "No, I wouldn't have committed a _foul_ just to prove a point. But he chickened first. That's what I wanted to prove— I wouldn't be the one to chicken out." Groaning, she adds, "Besides, Trinity's feint was the exact same thing. Just had to startle mine into a handy Bludger."

"Trin and Gwen have worked on that routine for _ages_ , and it doesn't always _work_ , Gin."

"Injuries heal. Victory is forever."

"Don't say you actually believe your own slogans," Angelina snaps, hand tightening around Ginny's.

Ginny gives back one squeeze, then two. Nice and slow.

Angelina exhales, long and shaky. "And yeah, I worry as your girlfriend too. It's not just some brave slogan for your tombstone. Quidditch is a rough sport, but I don't want you trying to set records for stunts that get you injured or grounded."

"Have you ever tried telling that to our other teammates?"

"I'm not _responsible_ for our other teammates," Angelina says quietly. "Look— we've played together before, I _know_ you're good. But I was also your Captain, and old habits die hard. I want you— I want _us_ — to have nice, _long_ careers together. Not just a blaze of glory."

Ginny chews that over, and tentatively rolls so she can kiss Angelina's shoulder, presses her mouth to the swell of the other woman's bicep and touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth like it's a key, like the right words might just unlock if she tries hard enough.

Finally, she says,

"I don't play safe, soft, gentle. I play with all I have. And I don't want who we are off the pitch to be a blaze of glory either."

Angelina laugh, turning to kiss the top of Ginny's head. "It's a work in progress."

. . .

The tall witch with red nails turns up at their next practice, though her nails are conspicuously filed down. Cho Chang is with her, dressed smartly in grey dress robes. A wire-bound book is in her hand, which several of the players discreetly eye while Gwenog introduces them.

"Ladies! This is Malinda Hopkins and Cho Chang from Witch Weekly. They've asked for interviews and photos, I said I'd run it by you all first. What's the score?" Gwenog asks, gaze sweeping the players.

"What's that?" Iris asks, pointing at Cho's book.

Cho's cheeks turn pink as she picks up the book, flipping it around the wire binding. "Muggle-style notebook. And pen," she adds, holding up one that Ginny recognizes as rather nice ballpoint, clicking it in demonstration.

"We try to embrace more _modern_ ways of thinking at Witch Weekly, which is part of why we want to run a story on the Harpies," Malinda says smoothly.

Ximena snorts. "The Harpies are the second-oldest team in the League. Try again."

Malinda sucks her teeth with an audible sniff, and gestures sharply towards Cho.

Cho takes a deep breath.

"The Harpies are an inspiration to women everywhere, and the fact that you have a substantial queer following is _not_ lost on us," Cho says. She tucks the pen into the wire of her notebook, then folds her hands in front of her. "The world is changing. The world _has_ changed. And as a women's magazine, we want to focus on stories relevant to all women, not just our traditional demographic."

"So two straight women go gawk at the lesbians playing sport?" Ximena asks, rolling her eyes.

"Bi," Ginny, Angelina, Cho, Valmai, and Trinity all say at the same time.

They blink at each other in surprise.

Ximena crinkles her nose, wincing. "Sorry, didn't mean to sweep you under the rug there. Or you, Iris," she adds as an afterthought.

Ginny tilts her head, looking at Cho again. "I thought you only dated boys, back in school."

"So did you," Cho replies softly.

Ginny shrugs. "Point."

"Now that we've had this touching PR moment, do we have your _permission_ to feature you in Britain's most popular witch's magazine?" Malinda asks snidely.

The team agrees, in all their various forms— Ximena mumbles assent, Iris claps her hands together and jumps up and down, Trinity swallows and nods and looks suspiciously teary, Valmai grins and nods, Angelina gives a quick yes, and Ginny nods as well.

Malinda pulls her photography equipment out of a charmed satchel, and takes several group shots of the team before climbing on her broom to take pictures of them during practice. Cho conducts interviews, her Muggle pen scribbling on its own as she focuses on her questions. The team runs their usual drills, peeling off in one at a time for their interviews.

"I didn't know you were interested in journalism," Ginny says, settling on a bench when it's her turn. She laces her hands together, arching into an overhead stretch.

"I wasn't," Cho admits. "I started keeping a journal, you know. After— after the Triwizard Tournament. I don't have any stories of my own, really. But I like keeping other people's stories, trying to remember them to other people. And after the war, a lot of people weren't around to tell their own stories anymore." She gives a brief, sad smile. "Dennis Creevey and I got started doing obituaries, you know? I'm much happier doing this instead."

"I'm sorry," Ginny says, for lack of anything better to say. She sets her elbows on her knees.

Gently, Cho says, "It's not your fault."

Ginny coughs awkwardly into her fist. "So. This interview?"

It's a series of soft questions, nothing that Ginny doesn't expect. Her favorite part of playing, the hardest part of making the team, the people who have supported and inspired her. Ginny even manages to work in her line about "injuries heal, victory is forever" with the full satisfaction of knowing that Angelina will roll her eyes if it makes the final edition.

(It does, and Ginny laughs, underlining it, then circling, then highlighting it with a charm to make the words glow against the page, taunting Angelina until Angelina tosses it aside and grabs her and wrestles her to the couch— but that's another story, another time.)

Mrs Weasley puts the Witch Weekly special in pride of place on the mantle, where Ginny and Angelina's photograph hold hands and wave merrily at the family.

That's the start of a good number of other interviews. Witch Weekly may have started the trend, but the Harpies' winning streak doesn't hurt either; they beat the Wimbourne Wasps at their next game, then struggle against the Tutshill Tornadoes until Trinity grabs the Snitch from under the other Seeker's broom, pulling the Harpies to victory. Diagon Divas puts Gwenog on the cover, and while most of the team rolls their eyes and teases when Luna asks to interview them for the Quibbler, they each sit down and smile and later buy a copy.

"This reads more like a fan column than an article..." Ximena says, though not disapprovingly.

Iris giggles, waving at her own smiling portrait. Her picture waves back. "I think it's sweet."

"Oh, she even put a little disclaimer that 'as a cohabitant with Ms Weasley, this editor cannot claim to be free of bias.' That's _adorable_ ," Valmai sighs.

"I wish more writers were so honest," Trinity murmurs, cracking a smile.

More sponsorships and promotions come in, which makes Gwenog rub her hands gleefully. "No more lacy knickers!" Now it's powdered sports drinks in lip-puckering citrus flavors, personal grooming supplies (and the entire team laughs as Gwenog snatches the nail clippers with demonic glee), broom maintenance kits, and eventually a brief interview with a stern-faced woman with silver hair, where she explains that as a representative of Quality Quidditch Supplies, they are looking for the first witch to be the face of their newest Firebolt advertising campaign.

Ginny's heart rams up her throat. Angelina's clutches her hand, bones grinding, but Ginny cannot even protest the pain as her thoughts whirl.

When the woman leaves, Ximena lets out an exasperated groan.

"Fuck! I already know it won't be _me_ ," she sighs. "Keepers never get this kind of thing, we spend too much time in one place. It'll be Trin or one of you Chasers."

"Does that mean we're rivals?" Ginny asks Angelina, later, in the privacy of her bedroom.

Angelina kisses her nose. "No. We're partners. Always."

. . .

The Holyhead Harpies soar through the rankings, winning against the Pride of Portree, then the Montrose Magpies. Each victory earns more photographs and interviews until Gwenog has a fit of temper and chases reporters off the practice pitch, casting repulsion charms that make quills, parchment, and cameras fly away "so we can get some bloody practice in!"

With tensions mounting, each of them start their own rituals. Valmai refuses to wash her socks, afraid of washing away their luck, and Ximena gags and casts deodorizing spells before the start of each day. Gwenog demands that Trinity only kiss her an odd number of times before a match— one time, three times, never two or four— so that Trinity will 'owe her one' for winning. Iris starts bringing foil-wrapped chocolate coins from Honeydukes, insisting that everyone take a few pieces in case of 'the shakes.' Angelina starts taking a bath after each game, a luxurious soak in her flat's claw-footed tub, her hair piled high on her head and Ginny obligingly pouring in bubbles and oil as Angelina melts away the stress.

Ginny twirls a strand of hair around her finger, peering at the split ends. "I need a haircut."

"Mm." Angelina sinks deeper into the tub, nose-deep in the foam.

"What do you think?" Ginny pries.

Angelina wriggles her way up again, wiping her face. "You're allowed. Not that you need permission," she adds, rolling her eyes. "What do you have in mind?"

"Maybe more than a cut. Maybe a shave?"

"Bold," Angelina says approvingly.

"Never had hair that short." Ginny mimes scissors with two fingers, snipping just above her ears.

"You could go for an undercut. Keep the ponytail, leave enough that your hair still blows all dramatic when you're on a broom."

"Do you think the team will go for it...?"

Angelina snorts, splashing as she twists to look at Ginny. " _Now_ you start worrying about what people will think? We've put up with Valmai's socks for over a month now! They'll coo and cheer and everyone will want to touch your stubble." She cocks an eyebrow. "Unless... you're worried about the Firebolt campaign?"

Ginny rolls her eyes. "Fuck that. It's not about looking 'presentable' or whatever. And even if it were— you've been on the team longer. If it was just us, it would be you. _Should_ be you." She dips her hand in the tub, squeezing Angelina's soap-slippery palm. "I'd be a pretty shitty girlfriend if I couldn't be happy for you, wouldn't I?"

"I'll be happy for you too, if it happens," Angelina says. She squeezes Ginny's hand with a wet squelch.

"Might not be either of us. Could still be any of the others. But uh." Ginny coughs into her fist. "Will you cut my hair? Please?"

"You just want an excuse to shed all over my bathroom," Angelina sighs, sinking back into the tub. "But yes, I will. _After_ I've gotten nice and pruny."

. . .

As Angelina predicted, the rest of the team goes wild for the hair. Ginny grins and swipes it back— and if Angelina gives her a knowing look, recognizing that Ginny's been practicing, the rest of the team doesn't notice— before tying it up in a ponytail. Valmai wriggles her fingertips against Ginny's shaved scalp, itchy-soft and ticklish, while Iris coos and Ginny is sure to announce, "Angelina did it!" so as to redirect that hurricane of attention back towards her girlfriend.

Other than a few questions lobbed by the press ("Weasley, any meaning to the hair cut?" "It just means I _love it_.") and Mum's loving wail ("Bill's grown his hair out, you've cut yours— couldn’t you just swap?") it becomes part and parcel of Ginny's new look. She over-sudses her hair in the shower at first, but it dries quickly and feels like absolute _heaven_ when Angelina leans against her on the couch and rubs her neck, raking her blunt nails through the stubble.

Their final match ends up against Puddlemere United. Combine the British and Irish League Cup with a traditional rivalry, and the stakes couldn't be higher, the crowd more electric. Ginny blood thunders, and she devours four of Iris' chocolate coins in an effort to ground the wordless thrumming in her teeth.

"If you see Griffiths, you've _got_ to stay calm..." Trinity murmurs, kneeling in front of Gwenog as she fastens her girlfriend's protective gear.

"But she _left_ us! _Left_ us to play for _pissing Puddlemere_!" Gwenog growls.

Trinity gives Gwenog a level glare. "And _I_ kept my head when we played the Falcons. Deal's a deal, Gwen."

"Fine..."

Angelina steps in front of Ginny, squeezing her shoulder. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

"How do you _think_ I'm feeling?"

Angelina rolls her eyes. "Fair point."

Belatedly, Ginny asks, "How are _you_ feeling?"

Angelina shrugs. "Excited. Nervous." She flicks a stray braid over her shoulder. "Oliver Wood's playing too." At Ginny's blank look, she adds,"He was the Gryffindor Quidditch captain before me. It'll be good to see him, but not if Gwen's on her 'us vs them' rant."

"You're allowed to have friends, even if our teams are rivals."

Angelina rolls her eyes and snorts. "True, but the Houses never set us up for that, did they?" She waves dismissively. "It's just different playing against Wood instead of with him."

"Hey, you've not gone _soft_ on us now, have you?" Gwenog calls, eyes narrowed.

"No, Captain!"

"Good, good," Gwenog mutters, trailing off into another diatribe against Wilda Griffiths.

It comes as a relief when they're finally on the pitch, the crowd a dull roar surrounding them and the sky an aching, fierce gray. Ginny bites her cheek and kicks to the air, that familiar stomach-drop of acceleration before the referee throws the Quaffle, and then they're playing and Ginny doesn't have time for nerves at all.

Griffiths has the Quaffle, but Ginny zips up to her as Angelina and Valmai close from the sides, cutting off Griffiths' escape as Ginny punches the ball directly from her hands. Ball goes to Valmai, who passes it to Angelina, who carries it down the pitch and feints left before spiking it into the right goal, directly past the Puddlemere Keeper's outstretched hand. Wood, that's him— Ginny remembers from cheering at Gryffindor games, but never spoke to him. By the time she made the team, he had already graduated.

Angelina hovers by the posts, and for a moment Ginny thinks she might be trying to say something, but Woods throws the Quaffle back in play and they're off again. A different Puddlemere Chaser takes the Quaffle, so the three Harpies Chasers fan out in Hawkshead Formation, a flying wedge that drives the Puddlemere Chaser aside and directly in the path of Iris' Bludger. He rolls upside-down in a desperate evasion, dropping the Quaffle. Ginny dives for it, swooping back up and zooming back to the goal posts. A Bludger flies up on her left, and she breaks right, diverting her course so as to pass by the Puddlemere Seeker. The Bludger changes targets, and Ginny makes her way back to the posts.

This close, she thinks she might recognize Wood as more than a blocky figure on the school pitch. Brown hair, intense glare, though that's probably more role than personality. She grins, waving with a flick of her fingers, but doesn't have time to enjoy his consternation before she punches the Quaffle to the hoop.

He blurs in a sideways twist, batting the Quaffle with his broom handle. A Puddlemere Chaser takes the ball, and Ginny swerves after them. She cuts to the side, reaching across to seize the Quaffle. Their broomsticks clatter, elbows and knees tangled in a mess of dull impact as the handles lock, both of them veering off course and then—

"Weasley! Penalty for Blurting! Back to the posts!" roars the referee.

Ginny swears as they hover to a stop, finally managing to unweave their awkward limbs and handles. The Puddlemere Chaser still has a death-grip on the Quaffle, and Ginny isn't feeling magnanimous enough to apologize, so she grits her teeth and flies down the pitch to Ximena.

Ximena gives her a curt nod, and Ginny turns her attention back to play as the Chaser takes the penalty shot. Ximena blocks, and they're back in the game.

This far down the field, she can see Trinity engaged in an aerial duet with the Puddlemere Seeker, a series of dizzying spins and loops. Impossible to tell if the Snitch is actually there or if this is a series of elaborate fake-outs, but now the Puddlemere Chasers are skidding their way to the goals. Ginny intercepts the Quaffle, swears as it passes behind her, and then it is a tumult of elbows and Bludgers that ends with Griffiths with a bloody nose, Gwenog with split lip, and Puddlemere with ten points.

Ginny blots her forehead with her sleeve, sweat trickling down her lip. She grabs the Quaffle and executes a flurry of throws and interceptions in kaleidoscope-blur, and Gwenog ends up slamming a Bludger into one of the Puddlemere Beaters hard enough to knock her off her broom. She falls, flailing, and for one horrible moment Ginny thinks she's hung suspended in the air, slowed like a Quaffle, but she hits the ground in a sickening heap. The healers immediately swarm her, and Ginny shakes her head. Back in the game, back in the game, and she passes to Valmai and Iris swings a Bludger at Wood and Valmai scores, and then—

"Ten points to the Harpies. Score is 20-10. Puddlemere Beater Jameson removed from play," the referee announces.

No substitution of players is allowed during a game, of course, which immediately puts the Harpies at an advantage— but it also fortifies the Puddlemere team with grim tenacity. Chasers ricochet down the pitch. Gwenog makes herself the Puddlemere Seeker's personal banshee, smacking him Bludgers at every opportunity. Wood blocks with his feet, hands, and even his skull, headbutting a Quaffle directly to Griffiths. Ginny stops paying attention to the score, instead focusing on the immediate scrimmage, and it ends up as a complete surprise when the referee blows the whistle and announces, "Harpies Seeker Kwan has the Snitch! Game goes to the Harpies, 250-110!"

The stands burst in showers of green and gold, sparks whizzing from every wand and an ear-rattling screech going up and down the stands. Ginny throws back her head and screeches, the Harpies letting out their own victory cry. Gwenog's mouth is still sticky, lips cracking and blood on her chin, but she howls along, embracing Trinity fiercely in mid-air.

On the ground, the team forms a disorderly circle, whooping and slamming off one another. Iris slings an arm around Ximena as she flings chocolate coins at her team and into the stands, and there is a silver blitz of lights and photos and Ginny's face aches from smiling until a neatly-dressed witch with dangling earrings of miniature brooms pushes her way through the mob to extend her hand to Angelina. Ginny leans close, but can only catch tatters of the woman's smiling announcement ("Congratulations— Angelina Johnson, Quality Quidditch Supplies— Firebolt spokeswitch—") and realization hits like two shots of Firewhiskey, a warm lovely spread through her belly and chest and Ginny grips Angelina with the warm-drunk-dizzy rush of it, kisses her full on the mouth and the photos erupt like fireworks, leaving sparkles imprinted on her closed eyes as she melts into Angelina, kissing congratulations and feeling Angelina stiffen in delighted shock before kissing back.

After an undefeated season they would be within their rights to carouse until dawn, but Katie and Alicia smuggle Oliver Wood into the Haunt, hidden under a heavy cloak and after Gwenog's initial outrage they calm themselves to a semblance of normalcy, arm-wrestling on the table. Oliver beats Gwenog, then Gwenog beats Oliver, then they go back and forth for best two out of three (Oliver wins), then best three out of five (Gwenog wins), and threatening to go for best five out of seven until Trinity buys them all a round of Butterbeers. Cho and Luna sit in a relatively isolated corner, heads bent close and comparing notes, and Valmai's chatting up a handsome witch wearing a Muggle-style suit, and Ximena is pushing a blushing Iris towards a strapping wizard with door-blocking shoulders, and somewhere in the midst of it all Ginny nibbles Angelina's ear and murmurs an invitation, and they Apparate out of the Hag's Haunt.

"Oh fuck, I'm so _proud_ of you," Ginny groans, breathless, thighs crushed between Angelina's as they half-stumble, half-maul one another on their way to the bedroom. Ginny kicks off one boot, then the other, leaves a tell-tale trail as they lurch through the door, one sock haphazardly dangling over the handle before slamming shut behind them. Angelina kisses back, heady and fierce, lips a rough chafe of teeth and gin, something harsh and herbal and ineffably sweet all at once, fingers threaded in the back of Ginny's ponytail and tugging it loose. "You're more than magic, you're _amazing_ , you're a fucking _goddess_ —"

"Ginny, Ginny, if it was you, I'd be just as happy—" Angelina mumbles, words tangled in long sighs and a breathless moan, almost ripping the buttons off her Quidditch robes as she yanks herself loose.

"You _deserve_ this. This wasn't about winning, this was about— about how amazing you are, how fit, how fierce, how wonderful, now I get to see your face on every Firebolt poster—" Ginny trails kisses down Angelina's neck, slips two fingers under her sports bra and pushes up to expose the swell of breast, circles her tongue around the areola and wraps her lips around the nipple, tugging into her mouth and lavishing warmth with every swipe of her tongue.

Angelina shivers, gooseflesh prickling over her bare skin, and pulls down her panties, starts to undo her boots but the still-clothed Ginny groans, "No, no, leave it," and Angelina settles back instead, two pillows under her head and a third under her arse as Ginny kisses her neck again, teeth gentle against her throat.

"Angelina, I just want to worship you right now. Slow and patient, all the ways you deserve it," Ginny breathes. Kneeling between Angelina's thighs, benedictions on her lips, hands spread like wings of prayer— all the ways that Angelina has blessed her life, all the ways that Ginny can return it, with skin and sex, and Angelina nods, once, decisive, so Ginny takes her time. Uses tiny nibbles of her lips to tease the skin, flicks her tongue and blows across the tip of each brown nipple, alternates cool breath and warm tongue with single-minded resolution as she works her way down. Angelina's sternum, smooth and warm, the heart drumming under bone— the smooth rungs of her ribs, where Ginny dips her fingers, imagines climbing, descending, going ever closer to Angelina's center— the jump of muscle in her belly, hard-shelled abdomen under Angelina's soft skin— the swell of belly, pubis, fine hairs trailing to the lush curls of Angelina's pubic hair. Ginny lingers, kissing the crimp of flesh, the tender line where thigh meets groin, stirs her nose through the crinkle of hair and musk and kisses again, more, just lips and breath, circling ever closer until finally Angelina hooks her knees over Ginny's shoulders and groans, "Gin, _please_. Clit. _Now_."

Ginny presses her tongue flat and broad, lapping Angelina's folds. She kisses open-mouthed over Angelina's cunt, swirls her tongue and uses her thumb to tug up the hood of Angelina's clit, wraps her mouth small and presses her lips to Angelina's clit. Tugs the clit into her mouth, hard and tender, one long moan of suction as Angelina grinds against her face, hands fisted in Ginny's hair, pulling her in, in, and Ginny couldn't escape if she wanted to, face red with effort and Angelina's boots digging into the back of her ribs, sweet friction but might leave bruises later, and her robes are stuck to her spine in one long line of sweat and effort and none of that is important right now, not next to making Angelina, come, and come, long howls unspooling from her lungs as she gasps and groans, "Finger, one finger—" and Ginny obliges. One turns to two, slipping in frictionless and slick, and Ginny crooks them just-so, the way Angelina likes, and when Angelina comes again it's with a bone-grinding intensity that turns Ginny's jaw to jelly, the way Angelina grips, but oh—

"Stop, stop," Angelina wheezes, breathless, eyes half-lidded, face shining, breasts heaving.

Ginny can't remember being any more in love, gently unlatching herself from Angelina's thighs and blotting her face on the comforter. She sits up, stretches her arms in front of her. Unkinks her spine, breathes in deep through a mouth still full of sex and Angelina. Crooks herself around Angelina, limbs folded against her angles, all positive and negative space.

"Fuck. That was— _fuck._ " Angelina makes a fist, lets it fall limply on the pillow.

"Want a bath?" Ginny asks, kissing Angelina's knuckles.

Angelina groans. "Yes, but I might fall asleep in the tub."

"No problem." Ginny chuckles. "Luna's fancied Cho for a while, I reckon we'll have the flat to ourselves tonight."

Angelina hums contentedly, and Ginny takes that as her cue to go to the bathroom and start filling the bath. She rummages under the sink for a lavender-scented bubble bomb and drops it in the water, swirling as it erupts in thick waves of scented foam. As the tub fills, she takes one of Angelina's bathing caps and passes it to Angelina. Angelina ties up her hair and puts the cap on as Ginny undoes her boots, tugging them off and unrolling her socks. Ginny kisses each bare toe, grinning as Angelina squirms, ticklish, and offers her elbow as she gallantly assists Angelina into the bath. Angelina leans back in the tub, sighing as she sinks chin-deep in bubbles, and Ginny squeaks off the tap.

"How's it feel to be a League champion, Gin?" Angelina murmurs.

Ginny cracks her knuckles, sitting on the toilet lid. "Pretty damn good."

"Still taking risks?"

Ginny rolls her eyes, but squeezes Angelina's hand, wet and slippery. "It's not like I'm _reckless_. I can take risks because I've got the team at my back. Because I've got _you_ at my back."

"Got your back, front, and sideways too," Angelina chuckles.

“Promise?”

“Always.”

Ginny takes a copy of the Quibbler to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and flipping through the pages (occasionally reading upside-down) as Angelina drowses in the tub.

There are still interviews, photos and tours and all sorts of hustle in the weeks and months ahead, but for now it's just this: the two of them, Ginny reading, Angelina napping. The air thick with lavender steam and the gentle slosh of water. Everything good.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts that didn't quite make it into the fic: I originally meant to name the Harpies' Seeker Michelle Kwan, mostly as a nod to her being so often pointed out as 'the' female Chinese-American athlete to inspire Asian-American women, including myself. I changed 'Michelle' to 'Trinity' because I decided it felt a little too weird for me to use an actual celebrity's name for the name of a fanfic celebrity (who plays a fictional sport, no less!) and only after the fact realized that now she's a Power Ranger. :') Trinity is also trans.


End file.
